


Hair of the Dog

by rothalion



Category: Army Of Two (Video Game)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 08:27:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17403494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rothalion/pseuds/rothalion
Summary: The team suffers a breakdown after Murray fires Salem for poor behavior.I am not sure where this will go, but it has been hanging around for a while. I figured that I would share it. Thanks





	1. Chapter 1

HAIR OF THE DOG

 

Salem squeezed his blood shot eyes shut when the elevator door hissed open accompanied by a loud ding. Sighing, he shuffled out of the car and took a tentative sip of his coffee. It stung his split lower lip a bit and that triggered an attempt to once again piece together what he referred to as another _Lucy, Lizzy, Lacy weekend._ After a brief pause, he decided to go the long way around to the team’s eighth floor ready room, hopefully buying himself enough time for the Stoli infused coffee to knock the edge off of his hangover. _Hair of the dog,_ he thought, _hair of the dog, a man had to do what a man had to do to function._

            As Salem shuffled along the deserted hallway, the worse for wear operator replayed his weekend in his mind. He remembered heading out Friday right after cleaning up from training, he remembered eating steak at The Dark-horse Grill, and he more or less recalled possibly eating some Curried goat and goat’s head soup late Saturday night at a beachside party with, well with some people, Jamaicans maybe? Which was where he’d met Lucy, Lizzy, Lacy. That bit of memory afforded him the fuzzy mental picture of getting a blow job and fucking the woman in the tall dune grass on a soft, purple blanket not far from the grilling area with the sound of the other guests’ laughter in the background. The mental picture, in turn, spawned an olfactory one of coconut scented sun screen, rum, and a tangy, near pungent citrusy perfume and Gain laundry soap. His alcohol soured stomach churned, and he swallowed back the acrid bile. The bile of shame, he called it; always the ramification of allowing some hussy to fuck him because she was attracted to his tattoos and he was too screwed up to refuse. Salem took a long pull of coffee from the styrofoam cup, glad for the strong bite of Stoli that it provided, and shoved that part of the memory deep down where it couldn’t tear at him anymore. Still, though, his skin prickled as if he was standing too near an open electric current.

            Sunday? Turning left at the end of the 250 foot long hallway’s far corner he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to recall anything at all about Sunday. There was waking up on the beach, well after sunrise, to the harsh kicks and scolding of a Rios sized, irate lifeguard, which in turn seemed to lead to… _yea_ , he thought nodding his pounding head, _that explains my black and blue rib cage and lumpy head._ But what had happened between then and the fight at the Haven’s Hangout bar Sunday night? After a bit more pondering, he gave up. Sunday was simply one long blank…again. The entire day, up until the bar and the fight and being, not for the first time, unceremoniously loaded unconscious into the bed of his red, Ford-F150, 4x4 Raptor was a complete loss. After all, letting somebody fuck you needed to be punished. So quite predictably, he’d sought out some burly brutes, antagonized them into a blind fury and let them pound him senseless. Where-as if the fight had been _real_ he’d have fought them relentlessly; the badger side of him taking control until winning.

Sunday’s deconstruction complete brought him to Monday morning when he woke up in the bed of his truck around 0315, dragged ass home, took a fast shower, bought and spiked his coffee and landed on the tenth floor of SSC’s headquarters at 0445, a whole fifteen minutes early for their 0500 meeting. _Well not so early anymore,_ he thought, turning left again when the equally lengthily hallway ended. Taking the long way round had burned eleven of those minutes. Not that Salem really cared. By not being there at 0430 meant that Rios would consider him already late.   

            Finally, he was standing in front of the briefing room door. He stopped across the wide hall from it, so that the sensor didn’t activate. All of SSC’s doors were motion activated, sliding doors like the elevators’. They added an extra layer of security to the already fortress like building. After a deep, alcohol tainted breath and sigh, he stepped forward, and as the the door slid into the hardened wall he stepped in. The room went silent, and all eyes turned and locked on him. None of them held any sort of compassion.

 Feeling the need to diffuse the situation he raised his hands out to the sides and said, “What? Give a guy a break.” Then slid into his designated chair.

From across the table, Rios only glared at him. Then, after a long moment, he pointed at the coffee. The table had built in computers at each seat and food and drink were strictly forbidden.

“Lose it,” the big man growled.

It was a command, and Salem really wanted to comply but complying while technically still drunk was just so difficult. So he looked at the cup, then the garbage can and decided to chug the remainder. Lifting the cup he began to, and then Rios slammed to his feet and started coming around the table. Elliot put the cup back down and started to stand, but before he could Murray intervened.

            “Sit, Tyson, and you, you explain yourself.”

            “Explain what?” Salem half whined sitting back down, “What?”

            “Explain why…”

            “Let it go, Murray, and let’s just get this over with. I have a 0900 flight to D.C. and I need the Intel from this briefing. Have you studied the dossier, Salem?” Dalton asked, fully knowing that the thick red folder he’d carried in had probably not been read, let alone the necessary parts committed to memory.  

            “Yea, sure.”

            “Yea, sure?” Rios yelled, “That is our boss you are addressing, Salem. Show some respect.”

            Again Dalton raised his hand, stopping the argument and making a let’s move this along gesture.

            “Yes, Sir, Mr. Dalton, sir. Better, fat ass?”

            That stunned even Dalton. He was well aware that Salem’s behavior was often an issue and had witnessed the smaller man’s tantrums but this was a bit much.

            “You-are-still-drunk.”

           “Am I, Rios? Wouldn’t be the first time.”

           “No, you’re right, Salem. I mean look at yourself, man. You drag in here half an hour late, you reek like a fucking still, four days worth of untrimmed beard, your clothes straight out of the laundry bin all a rumpled mess and hat backwards on uncombed un-cut hair. You obviously had your ass beaten again; can you even see out of your right eye? You need that eye for this op, Salem. The fuck, Elliot? You _need_ that eye to make money! This shit’s getting old. No, Dalton, this ends now. And you, Salem, you get your skinny, drunk ass up, toss the coffee, go to our quarters, set your self straight and high tail it back here. In the meantime, we’ll review…”

           Salem slammed the file folder open, his right palm slapping loudly on the table nearly dumping the coffee. “I-ain’t-goin’-no-fuckin’-where. I’m here, you’re all here. So, just get going with your mission inquires so, Mr. Dalton here can make his flight. The fuck’d  you want to know?”

           He took a long sip of his coffee, slouched back in his chair crossed his arms over his chest and waited. No, he hadn’t really read the files, but he had near perfect photographic memory. He could field their questions, albeit he truly did not have any concrete operational understanding of the mission. Before anyone could speak he reached back out for his cup and nearly tipped it over.

           “If you spill as much as one drop, Salem…”

           “It’s a goddamned table, for fuck’s sake! What moron designs a table that can’t fuckin’ be used as a table? Explain that to me! I…”

           “Well, tech loaded tables are not a new convention. In fact…”

          All eyes swung to Secour, who shrugged.

         “Fuck you, M.I.T., you and your tech. It’s a goddamned ignorant, stupid, it’s I don’t have enough words to describe how idiotic it is to design a table that’s a computer that can’t be…”

           “Enough, Salem!” Murray snapped, “Take your coffee, leave the dossier and get out. Your participation in the operation, in this organization, is no longer needed, as your behavior can no longer be tolerated.”

           Salem just stared at her, mouth agape. Had she just fired him? How dare she? The only time he missed an op was if he was too injured, and even then they usually sent him anyway. Could she even fire him? Dalton had had hired them after all. Again the room was totally silent while the team digested what had just transpired.

           “You’re firing me?”

           “Effective immediately, to be reviewed once you seek treatment and get your head screwed back on straight. And I mean real treatment and real straight. Now, if you will excuse us we have work to do. Giddy, you will replace Salem as the primary shooter. I do not see you walking out of my door, Salem.”

           Her tone reminded Salem that Murray had been a Naval intel officer before SSC headhunted her. Between her tattoos and usually casual demeanor, it was easy to forget. But tone aside it wasn’t in Salem’s nature to give up without a fight.

           “You can’t fire me. I have signed contracts. A contract for SSC and one I just signed for this op. So…”

           Murray fished around in one of her many folders, withdrew two packets of paper and proffered one in each hand.

           “Let’s see, you mean these contracts?” she asked before tearing the one in her right hand in half and then reaching beside her chair feeding the halves into the confidential paper shredder, “And this contract?”

           The process was repeated, and then she leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms on her chest and stared defiantly at him.

           “You…”

           “Oh, but I can, and I did. Both have clauses allowing termination for behavior dangerous, or possibly compromising to SSC or an op. So, away you go. Sleep it off, find a therapist, one that we acknowledge. I suggest the seventh floor, the mental health, and substance abuse offices. Their services are free for all terminated operators suffering from such issues. Then come re-apply.”

           Salem was furious. After all the blood he’d shed for them this was how they treated him. Maybe he did need help. Maybe he even wanted to ask for it but to just cut him loose…

           “You know what, fuckin’ fine, I quit! And as for your stupid table…” he popped the lid off of the plastic cup, flung it Frisbee-like at Murray, and then poured the remaining ten ounces of coffee directly onto the dossier, screen, and keyboard in front of him. “How do you like me now, fuckers?” And, he was gone.

           When he reached the elevator, two tech types, looking no older than seventeen or eighteen, came rushing out of the doors toting rags and little tool boxes. The sight of the boys’ panic, despite his situation, struck him funny and once in the elevator, he started laughing harder than he could recall laughing in a long while. That stopped, though, when the doors hissed open on the fourth floor where their quarters and gear lockers were located. Waiting for him were five SSC security guards.

           “Guess I scare ‘em, hunh.” Salem said chuckling lightly, “they sent five a you useless pukes.” Then he shook his head and allowed them to escort him to his gear and out of the building.    

 

 


	2. TWO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team struggles to regroup and salvage the mission.

TWO

HAIR OF THE DOG

 

The room was silent after the door hissed closed. The sudden turn of events had cast a solemn mood over the group. Then, before anyone could truly respond, the doors whisked open again and, there was a collective sigh when the young techies rushed in and not Salem. They set to work sopping up the coffee and drying the keyboard with a small vacuum like device. There was little they could do in a short period of time, and they scurried away with apologies so that the meeting could reconvene.

            “Right, so moving on, Murray began “Here, Giddy, use my copy of Salem’s dossier to catch up on his mission details. Obviously, you will need time to read it properly, but skim it while we go around and hear the rest of the team’s input. Heckler, you can manage running solo, but I’ll see about snagging Yarborough as your secondary, though. Are we clear?”

            There was a chatter of affirmatives then Dalton spoke up.

            “Sounds like you have it in hand, Murray. Now then my concern is that this is a pure sniping mission. This is a technical shot, a very technical shot, after a grueling, exhausting hump through shitty terrain. So, Guidry are you sure that you have the chops for it? Be honest, son, because there is a lot of money and future work riding on that shot.”

            Phil Guidry settled back into his chair and flipped through the thick file. He noted the distance, the terrain, and the anticipated weather conditions then set the folder back on the table. He was a trained sniper, but since Salem had come to their squad in Djibouti, so many trying years ago, he’d had little chance to practice his skills outside of the range. This shot would require a five day slog through vicious jungle mountains, then a three day wait for the target to arrive providing that their intel was accurate. It was most certainly well within Salem’s skill set, almost as if it was custom made for the younger man, and Giddy knew that it probably had been.   

           He was in great shape as well, but the jungle had a way of beating men down. Rios and Salem typically took the missions requiring that level of physicality with him and Heckler working logistics and being prepared as a secondary team in the rear should Salem and Rios fail. It wasn’t often, no, if he was honest they hadn’t actually run an op in rough terrain in three years, that they did anything other than urban close protection work. That was their strong suit. The tedious day to day routine of close protection work bored Salem into a stupor that threatened his professionalism and Rios’ bulk just didn’t lend itself to not standing out in a crowd. So, Rios and Elliot ran outside work and Giddy and Heckler ran urban affairs. Was he up to a week, no nearly two actually with extraction, in the jungle?

           “Guidry? Phil? Well?”

           He snapped back to attention at the sound of Dalton’s voice and sat up straight. The man had asked for honesty so he’d be brutally frank.

           “Honestly, it’s asking a lot. Tyson,” he pointed across the table at the larger man, “him and Salem they train for that sort of thing. It’s not a shot made by an exhausted operative. I’m in good, equal shape as Salem but that hump will wipe me out. Conversely, I can get it done. I will have three days to recoup with Rios watching our six. This is after all why we have a secondary team right?”

           For the next two hours, the team worked the mission over and over talking through their respective roles, call signs, coordinates and contingency plans for infil and exfil, and then talking through each other’s tasks. Redundancy was the bread and butter of SSC’s success. It was usually a very serious but energized meeting. This morning’s, though, was playing out dark and grim. Salem’s antics and insight were sorely missed. Dalton, long a leader of men, felt the negative morale shift and when the meeting wound down he addressed it.

           “Alright gentlemen, Murray. My part here is done,” he began while closing his folder. “I know that what happened here this morning hurts. Broken men break strong men's hearts. It is what they do, gentlemen. Despite all of his skills and his great spirit, Elliot is a broken man. He always has been. He always has been, and we tolerated it, but a soldier is a weapon, men, and like a weapon you can manage it’s failings but only for so long. There comes the time when you have to set it aside for repair and if beyond repair retire it. Sad, yes, but true. This morning Salem, Elliot, our comrade crossed that line and not for the first time. I fully support Murray’s decision, as should you all. Do you hear me, Heckler? I see the look in your eyes, son. Answer me.”

           “Yes, sir. Copy that, sir.”

           “Good. Now, you guys,” he pointed round the table, “Your job is to get this mission done. Let me try to get our wayward brother back on track. He’s too drunk and angry today to get through to him, but as soon as I return from D.C., after closing the deal on this contract, I will make Salem my priority. Maybe coming from me, well maybe a new voice can get him situated. So, I will see you all when you get back from the jungle. Luck to you all.”

 

 

 

 


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The guys speak their minds about how Murray handled Salem's behavior.

THREE

HAIR OF THE DOG

 

Once the door closed after Dalton, Heckler growled long and feral and launched from his chair, knocking it over and then paced in a small tight circle with his fists knotted in his short, light brown hair. He was furious with Murray and Rios and Dalton. He was furious with Salem too. Not just furious, though, his emotions were a jumbled mess. After four or five rotations, he moved to the wall and banged his forehead against its cherry paneling in utter frustration. It wasn’t like him to feel so angry and out of control. Those were Salem’s emotions, and he was above succumbing to them. Dalton’s words though, Dalton’s words while meant to motivate them had instead infuriated him.

“Heck, Heckler, sit back down, calm down. Vince.” Murray said softly.

He spun back around, righted the chair and slammed it down. Then, he leaned down low and across the table his arms spread wide and his face inches from the contract writer’s.

“No,” he seethed. “This is no, no retirement. This is throwing away. This is you and Dalton and Rios _throwing_ Fifty away. Retirement, my fucking ass! It’s…”

“An intervention, Heckler. He is out of control. We have a responsibility to do whatever it takes to…”

“To what? Alienate him when he needs us the most. If he’s as broken as Dalton says then he needs us. We’re nothing more than weapons! He’s flesh and blood and god damned bone for fuck’s sake, Murray!”

“Please Vince, it’s been a difficult enough morning, please sit down. Right now we need to focus on the mission.”

“Murray is right, Vinnie, you need to keep your head down and keep moving on with the mission. Salem will wait until we get home. He’ll sober up and realize that he fucked himself once again. He’ll do what needs to be done to get back in the game.”

“Game? This is a game to you, Rios? I got news for you, man, it’s not a game to Salem. Who fucking held your shredded face out of the mud for over two hours? Who?” he raged, “He might be broken, but he _loves us unconditionally,_ and he would never, ever _retire_ any of us if we got too broken. So take your god damned mission and shove it. I’m going after him.”

“Vincent Heckler, sit down, now!”

Murray’s command halted him just as he reached the door, and he stood there frozen, framed in the opening his back to the team. He was glad for that at least, it meant they could not see the tears streaming down his cheeks. He couldn’t remember the last time that he’d cried. No, it struck him then that it was in the mountains when they’d barely kept Elliot alive; when he’d held his fingers in the smaller man’s chest pinching off the flow of blood. If a man could make you cry, he figured, then he must be worthwhile.

“My mission is Fifty. I’ll leave the damned jungle and the cartel to you, you fully functional weapons. Consider me fucking retired too.”

Once again the door hissed closed, and the room slipped into an even deeper gloom. Salem was gone, Heckler was gone and the team was slowly crumbling, fracturing really. Murray leaned her elbows on the table either side of the inset keyboard and pressed the heels of her hands into her temples. As mission runner, Murray needed to get her team back under control.

Finally, she looked up and made eye contact with each of them. Secour was focused on his computer screen, absorbed in his data, but he’d always remained somewhat aloof from the turmoil of the group. Numbers and code he understood but emotions and psychology eluded him. He cared, she knew, but just didn’t have the capacity to show or truly comprehend it. She was sure that, if tested, he’d fall somewhere along the high end of the Asperger’s spectrum. Oddly, of all of them, he was probably the most similar psychologically to Elliot. They both shared an inability to express actual emotions, albeit for vastly different reasons. Yet, they were so dramatically different. Secour was a tea totaling nerd and Salem…well he was a boozing, misguided yet highly intelligent operator, probably near genius level, dysfunctional operator.

Giddy met her gaze and simply shook his head in disbelief. She knew that he disagreed with her rash reaction to Salem’s behavior and her decision. He was far more level headed, though, than Heckler, and had always been a big brother or in Salem’s case nearly a father figure, to the younger guys on the team. For the first time, she wondered if building Delta team up from men who’d been so committed to one another before SSC had been wise. It, in effect, pitted their tenacious loyalty to one another against their loyalty to the company. Giddy, she hoped, was more inclined to side with her once the situation settled a bit. She needed an ally, besides Rios and Dalton.

“Phil…”

“Don’t. I know where you are going with this, Murray, so don’t.”

“I did what I thought he needed, Phil. What matters now…”

“Is, yea, yea, yea, the mission. I get it. But really, Alice, since we seem to be on a first name basis, it’s bullshit. What matters is him. Fact, we used him and his dysfunction for too long now and it broke him. This mission, Alice, is a wash now. As mission runner, you need to admit that and do the right thing. Ship it to Yarborough’s team. Delta is sidelined.”

“Giddy’s right, Murray,” Secour said while clicking away on his keyboard, “no way, shredded up like we are, can we successfully pull it off. All of my data suggests that, as is, we stand only a thirty-six and a half percent chance of closing this op successfully. Not good odds. Numbers don’t lie, and sans morale well, we are screwed.”

Finally, she looked to Rios. He’d been surprisingly silent since she’d sent Salem away. The duo’s relationship was fractious at best. But she knew that Rios, of all of them, had the most experience with Elliot’s dysfunction. He was also well trained at masking his true feelings. Feelings, she thought, feelings were a bane to their profession. If the team had been able to shut down their feelings about her decision the same way that they shut down their feelings about killing they’d not be stuck in the situation they were now.

“Rios?”

“He needs…”

“Oh, Christ. You’d ask him, Murray? He hated Salem from day one and still persecutes him mercilessly. God, Rios, really. He needs. He needed you ten years ago and you kicked him to the curb like a rabid dog. He needs. If it wasn’t for Benedict and me you’d have run him straight out of the army and landed him back in prison. Is that what you want now? Prison, a coffin? What? This op is a wash, gone sideways before it even got started. So yea, make your phone calls, pass it off because this team is done for a while.”

“Giddy, we’ve come a long way since then. Come on, man, Phil. I’ll fix him once we get home. I always pull him back from the edge.”

Giddy stood up and slid the folder slowly, deliberately across the table to Murray.

 “Right, like after that DRC op. What was it that time? Oh, yea, first your selfish scathing

words, then pills, slit wrists…back from the edge? Doesn’t matter. This op is done, and I have two men to chase down and care for. I’m sorry, but, yea, Elliot needs help but this, this was not the way to start that process.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heckler goes to Salem's to try to talk some sense into him.

 

FOUR

HAIR OF THE DOG  
  


Heckler drove the eight and a half miles to Salem’s beachside condo with his fists clenched on the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white. He had little hope that the man would actually be at home, but he had to try. He rolled into the parking garage with squealing wheels and whipped his bronze colored, Dodge Ram, 4x4 truck into a spot marked visitor a few spots left of Elliot’s big, red Ford Raptor. With a sigh of relief, that Salem was home, he grabbed the plastic bag filled with two Lemon lime Gatorades, two liter bottles of water and a box of a dozen Krispy Cream Donuts and hopped out of his truck. Between the Gatorade and the donuts, he hoped that he could get Salem lucid enough to talk him into trying to appease Murray and get the mission and the team back on track. He had three days, three days to rescue the team. To rescue Salem.

            On the sixth floor, he exited the elevator and made for Salem’s apartment. It was a small place, but Salem loved the beach and the area had a nice break for surfing. So, despite being able to afford a nicer place the younger man seemed very attached to this one and had stayed a record three and half years. It suited him, Heckler reasoned as he rang the doorbell. It was beachside with a bar and restaurant on the first floor. Salem could surf, drink and eat and never really leave home.

            Six pushes of the little, amber hued glowing doorbell later, he tried the door knob. To his astonishment, it turned, and he cautiously slipped into the foyer.

            “Hey, Fifty? Hey, man, it’s Heck. Fifty?”

            After getting no response, he made his way down the photograph lined foyer to the living room and stopped short. He’d been to the man’s house before, and it had been less than pristine, but this time, this time the space was an absolute mess. He’d heard Rios rail about Salem’s housekeeping, but it hadn’t prepared him for the reality of it. The area around the sofa was littered with empty beer cans, pizza boxes, and several empty Stoli bottles. Pushing forward he made his way to the kitchen. The trash can and two white garbage bags stacked beside the refrigerator were overflowing, again with beer cans and pizza boxes. The sink too was loaded with dirty dishes, bottles, and cans. He turned in a circle looking for a bit of horizontal space to set down his bag and donuts but found none. Finally, he just shoved the detritus off the end of the breakfast bar and put the groceries down there.

            “Fifty?”

            He moved out of the kitchen and toward the single bedroom. Halfway there the stench of old vomit assailed him, and he forced down the bile rising in his throat. Years of dealing with death had hardened him to foul odors, but that didn’t make smelling them any easier.

            “Elliot, hey man it’s Heck. Fifty, Elliot?”

            He found him in the bathroom.

            “Damn it, Fifty. Oh, man, the fuck did you do?”

            The white, tile floor was slick with blood, and Salem was slumped in between the toilet and the tub. Heckler rushed forward and checked him over for wounds finding nothing that was life threatening, just a nasty gash across his left palm. Grabbing him under the arms and tugging him up, he sat him on the closed toilet and tried to rouse him but got no response. So, Heckler balanced him to the right against the sink counter and started a warm shower. It wouldn’t wake him up like a cold one might, but it would clean up the vomit and blood before he put him to bed. Maybe, he thought sadly, Murray was right. Maybe it was time, afterall, to get Salem some serious help.


End file.
